


The Half-Open Door

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Experimental Magic, M/M, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6084075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian suffers the after-effects of a failed piece of experimental magic meant to enhance his senses in battle, learns more than he wanted to know about several of his friends and companions, and finally gets something he's been wanting for months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink meme prompt:
> 
> Dorian is experimenting with a spell to enhance the senses in battle, and it goes a little wrong. For a few days after, he finds himself at times suddenly unable to not see/hear/smell/taste things he shouldn't be able to, and it's very distracting.
> 
> Sometimes it's useful (e.g. stopping an assassination attempt on the Inquisitor), but mostly he would like his brain to stop zeroing in on the sound of Bull masturbating half-way across Skyhold, thank you very much, and also to go back to a time when he didn't know exactly what it smells like when Bull's feeling horny.

It was of course apparent to Dorian's friends and acquaintances that something was not entirely as usual. It was Vivienne who noticed first, close to the library as she was: Dorian's quick footsteps on the stone floor, his face annoyed.

"Did you, by chance," he said, in an attempt at sounding offhand which would have been charming if he was only a little younger, "happen to drop a bottle of your very marvelous perfume?"

Vivienne considered him, and although he raised an eyebrow at her examination, she rather thought she made him uncomfortable: the set of his mouth a little too tense.

"Hardly, darling," she said. "You of all people ought to understand the value of such little luxuries in these times. If this is a terribly roundabout way of asking to borrow some—"

There, she had him: a quick flash of nausea, entirely unfeigned.

"Dorian," she said gently, "are you quite well?"

Dorian shook his head quickly. "No, no. Nothing of consequence. I shan't trouble you further." A hurried retreat.

When Vivienne made her way down to the hall for lunch, she didn't find him in his usual alcove in the library; but perhaps he had only decided that man could not live on wit alone and gone in search of food himself.

Sera, had she cared to, could have told her highness that Dorian was sitting up on the roof of a tower with one dusty tome, a tattered volume of his own notes, and a bottle of brandy he'd definitely nicked from Josephine's stash. She'd seen him hurry past, pissy as anything, just when she was trying to figure out the best way to mess with the Comte de Whatever's carriage.

He didn't even bother to insult her back when she shouted after him; didn't even seem to notice her. Obviously she'd followed him. Dorian, miss an insult? Fat chance.

He was leaning against the parapet, head tilted back to the sky, when she swung herself up through the hatch; he startled to see her, and then a look of deep disgust flashed over his face. It made him look like a proper rich pissbag.

"What," she said.

"Have you been rolling in manure?" he asked. Didn't even sound angry, despite the look. More tired. _Weird._

"What, no. Put some in—doesn't matter where. Washed after, didn't I."

"As much as I appreciate a gilded shit," Dorian said, "I find the fresh version a little much. Perhaps you need to work on your bathing technique."

"No complaints from anyone else," she said, considered. "Well, not about that."

"No." Dorian sighed. "I suppose you wouldn't have. Never mind. Do leave me in peace, Sera. I find I need to do some work on my creepy magic and evil laugh."

"Alright, alright," she said, rolled her eyes. "Catch you later, when you're people again."

But it was by his absence that Dorian was remarkable for the rest of the day. The Bull looked for him in vain in the Herald's Rest that night; had been promised a drinking partner. 

Although drinking partners were easy to come by he found himself indefinably dissatisfied. Dorian was _good_ to drink with. By lanternlight Dorian flirted easily, grew gorgeously relaxed. There was that anticipation there, the play between people who were probably going to fuck one day. 

"Oh, piss," Sera said, swinging herself onto a free chair across the table, back to front, arms crossed on top of the backrest. "Don't tell me you're in a snit too."

The Bull made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. "Who, me? Nah, I'm good." He considered, thumb shifting back and forth with the grain of the tabletop. "Who's in a mood?"

"Fancybritches," Sera said morosely. 

Well, that explained that, kind of. 

"Oh yeah?" he asked.

" _I_ don't know, do I. Got shirty about how I smelled and told me to piss off. Sitting up on the south tower like he was waiting for someone to swoop in on a griffon and rescue him."

"How you smelled," the Bull said, encouraging. 

"Look, maybe there was manure, but I'd cleaned up, right? He's not like you with your freaky sense of smell, what's he doing complaining about shite like that?"

"Hmm," the Bull said. He might've investigated, but he'd had a long damn day; he'd figure it out tomorrow, if there was really something up. 

Someone to fuck, maybe. That might do the trick. Shame it couldn't be Dorian, but people needed the time they needed.

In the event he settled for a good long wank, heels digging into the sheets, long slow strokes. Drawing it out. Imagine: Dorian, on his knees, sinking slowly down onto the Bull's dick. Had he ever fucked a Qunari? A Vashoth? Something new, his face transformed in amazement. Oh, yeah.

He came hard, and slept soundly, and it wasn't until he woke for morning training that he had the energy to give Sera's words any more thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Oh, yes, cast experimental magic on oneself, Dorian thought angrily. Be a fool. Why not. Yes, yes, sensory enhancement, all very valuable. The spirit of theoretical inquiry, certainly. But here one was, nauseated by the mildew smell of clothes that had been let to dry too slowly on the other side of the courtyard; one could hardly approach the armoury for the stink of stale sweat on leather that engulfed the place. One had a headache because of a wretched perfume which one knew very well to be tastefully discreet. And the noise—what a clattering, chattering din Skyhold had suddenly become.

Regrettably, sitting on the top of the most remote tower of the fortress for the foreseeable future was not a viable strategy. It had grown cold with the sunset, and the wind had begun to pick up. It was true that snow seemed laudably reluctant to settle within the walls, but the spring air was sharp with it all the same.

Although his day had contained a remarkable number of trials, surely none were greater than this:

On the steps by the Herald's Rest, he was arrested by a smell which was one he was much more naturally inclined to enjoy. 

"What, precisely," Dorian said to the night, "have I done to deserve this?"

The Bull, so distinctive a presence in the ordinary way of things, was overwhelming now; inescapable, for all that two walls lay between them at least. Dorian might as well have buried his face in the crook of the Bull's neck and breathed him in. 

His neck? What a joke. Say between his legs, rather. The smell of his arousal was so thick that Dorian felt he could taste it, sitting heavily on the back of his tongue. And the sound—the obscene slick slide that must be the Bull's hand on his cock, the rough growl of his breath—sounds that could nearly become words—

May the Maker grant me mercy, Dorian thought. Let me never learn what it is that the Bull imagines. This much I can live with, although it will haunt me. Only—

Imagine: to learn that the man one wanted with such a terribly guilty fervor thought of one, in these moments.

Imagine: to learn that he didn't.

I ought not know any of this at all.

Without considering it, he had sunk to a crouch on the stairs, the wall rough and cool against his shoulder. How cold he had felt, only moments ago.

How he burned now. Naturally one's face was hot—he had not intended—he would never deliberately—

But here he was. 

If only a sense of embarrassment at this infringement had been all he felt.

The Bull let out a desperate groan. The bed frame creaked.

Dorian fled to his bedchamber, where he slept terribly badly. Footsteps which might have been outside his door or on the battlements. Some rotten, stale smell, caught only in moments; presumably an unwelcome mixture of latrines and the great compost barrels behind the kitchens. A trick never to try in the vicinity of Crestwood, this one.

His stomach threatened to turn at the very idea.

And on the other hand, how was one to stop remembering—to stop reliving, as if in a vision, something one had never seen—

It one must be honest: 

it was not as though he had never imagined the thing before. Speculated. How did the Bull sound. How did he smell—how did he like to touch himself.

How would he like to touch Dorian.

This terribly tempting idea one must now live with, in the midst of this chaos of impressions which threatened to drag one under:

He'd take his time. He'd take Dorian _apart_.

Well, then. 

Consider latrines.

As the perfect punchline to a restless night, at breakfast there was mackerel.

The tower for me again, then, Dorian thought irritably; but practicality won out over melodrama at least to the extent that he found himself a remote room, barely furnished, and settled himself there rather than on the roof.

So: what error had he made in his calculations? For how long might he expect to pay?

Reviewing the evidence had provided no burst of illumination the day before, but he began again from the beginning all the same.

Varric found him two bells later. He had a plate in hand. It smelled—well, quite wonderful, in fact.

"Alright, Sparkler," he said. "Better eat up before you lose your shine."

Dorian stared blankly at him. 

"Excuse me?"

"A little bird told me you hadn't been by for meals since yesterday morning."

"You will forgive me," Dorian said, "if I find the southern definition of _meals_ to be a sort of slander against the very concept."

But he could smell honey, and fresh bread, and last autumn's apples. 

Varric put the plate down next to him.

"You want to tell me why Tiny has me bringing you food?"

Dorian froze, hand resting on the cover of his journal.

" _Excuse me?_ " he said again.

"That'd be a no, then."

"Believe me," Dorian said, "I cannot begin to suggest to you what ideas that great lummox may have in his head this time."

"I'm sure you can't," Varric said.

"You may think whatever you please," Dorian said, with practiced dignity, "provided you do it elsewhere. My thanks for the food, and be so good as to tell the Bull that his concern is unwarranted."

"Might want to tell him that yourself," Varric said. Grinned. "Unless you want to owe me one."

"You, Varric, are a true friend," Dorian said.

"I know I am," Varric said, and left him to it.

Dorian considered the food for a long time. Considered the Bull.

He was an intelligent man, one could hardly forget it. He had his habits, also; to catalogue and cross-reference all the information which came one's way was surely not a habit to be broken overnight, if ever. If Dorian could not unlearn his terrible need to hide his failings then surely—well.

Say the Bull knew, in some general way. Had pieced together some fragment of Dorian's state. 

What of it?

There was no reason the idea should unsettle him so.


	3. Chapter 3

It was Mia who next saw Dorian, hurrying through the hall on his way, one must assume, towards the library. He looked distracted, but that wasn't unusual. _The pursuit of knowledge, my dear Inquisitor!_ He had left a more than slightly tipsy game of chess unfinished once having come upon a sudden idea, and it probably hadn't even been a cover for the fact that he was losing. 

Her companion shot a disapproving look in Dorian's direction, mouth drawn down in distaste behind his damnable mask; the nerve of these Orlesian nobles, to hide themselves as though they thought their faces too good for the common folk.

As though sensing the look, Dorian's step faltered; he turned.

He said: "my friend, please do excuse me for what I am about to do, and do see to it that if Josephine must murder me I receive a quick death."

Her goblet of wine, so far untouched, he knocked firmly from her hand. It splashed across the delicate blue robes of her companion, sank mercilessly into the fabric.

The hall fell silent.

"A terrible vintage," Dorian said, with what quite likely appeared to be serenity to the hall at large. "If the Comte here believes that a Vashoth cannot judge quality, then perhaps the Inquisition has no need of his support, yes?"

His hand rested on hers. It did not tremble, but was terribly tense.

Understanding dawned. She turned to catch the eye of the nearest guard. "Fetch the Commander, if you would."

This was the moment at which the unfortunate Comte thought to draw a dagger from his sleeve—whether to stab himself or her she would never know, because that was the moment at which Dorian hefted the tome he had been carrying, temporarily forgotten upon the table, and hit the man smartly over the back of the head with it.

"Well," Mia said, as he folded, "that wasn't a particularly impressive attempt."

"I would allow three points," Dorian said gravely. "He did get as far as pouring the wine for you, at least."

"And you realised because—?"

He sighed. "I ought perhaps to tell you more privately. Nothing terribly serious, but a minor embarrassment I would prefer wasn't spread further than was strictly necessary."

The conversation which followed was several kinds of enlightening.

"I have been rather pained by the experience, I admit," Dorian said, "but I must now count it to have been worthwhile in one respect, at least."

She had been planning to suggest a tour of the gardens and pour the unvetted wine discreetly into one of the herb borders, but the scene had been sincerely enjoyable, and Dorian had both proven that her general paranoia had been well-founded and offered an opportunity to arrest the odious man. 

She held her peace, and lent him the use of her private quarters; left him sorting irritably through the books on her shelves for whatever it was he thought would help him, and went down to apologise to Josephine.

Although Dorian remained cloistered for some while in the company of Inquisitor Adaar's modest library, he could by that afternoon be found once more in the library. It was there that Josephine found him. He seemed rather to be expecting her, sitting in his usual chair by the window and not so much as pretending to read. He wore a hood which was by Tevinter standards quite tastefully restrained, but which to the rest of Thedas sent the message that one was Tevinter, noble, and unconcerned with what they thought of the matter. 

It was a greater degree of provocation than she had come to expect on his part, for all that he took fewer pains to be diplomatic than she might prefer.

"Well, Ambassador," he said, with a smile which was no doubt ever so charming, "are you here to take me to task for my terribly naughty behaviour?"

"I cannot imagine what good it would do," she said. "I know perfectly well that you will do as you please in any case. No; I merely wish to note that the cost of my best brandy will be deducted from your next stipend, so the fact does not surprise you."

He would have played, ordinarily; attempted to wriggle his way out of the thing. But his eyes were on the window, his expression distant.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Naturally. If there was nothing more—?"

Well. Where was the fun in that, Josephine wondered, and chastised herself. One must take the easy wins where they appeared. Maker only knew they were few enough.

"No, nothing more," she said. "A good day to you, Dorian."

She turned to take the steps up to Leliana's lofty roost. Dorian hardly noticed her leave; his brow had furrowed in thought. As she reached the upper level and followed the railing around to the corner where Leliana argued with one of her agents, she happened to see him hurrying down and out of the rotunda, oblivious to Solas' irritation at his noisy passage.

Well, he had always been inclined to follow his immediate impulses.

This impulse in particular took him, although she did not know it, to the Herald's Rest. An observant patron would have noted that he seemed disinclined to breathe as he made his way to the rooms on the upper levels. 

There he became hesitant.

The Bull, whose mind was inclined to wander from the business of writing reports nobody would now appreciate, noticed Dorian's footsteps first; definite up to the landing, a hesitation. Oh, yeah, it was Dorian—Dorian his thoughts had wandered to, Dorian outside his door like he'd known.

His door was ajar, and through the gap he could catch a glimpse of Dorian's back as he turned, took a step away, hesitated again.

The Bull laid aside his brush and ink block with care, rubbed idly at his mouth, considered. But before he had reached a decision, Dorian had found his resolve; quick steps to the Bull's door, the sudden shock on his face at seeing the Bull already watching him.

"Hey," the Bull said.

Dorian took a deep breath. "I need to talk to you," he said. "If you would be so good as to let me in."

"Door's always open," the Bull said. "Told you as much."

"I suppose," Dorian said, and didn't quite smile. Hesitated again, a tiny huff of breath. "I suppose you did."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, my friends: I lied. This isn't the last chapter. It's the penultimate one. Also, it's filthy & longer than the three previous installments put together. Enjoy.

Here, then, one stood. 

The Bull wore no eyepatch, no harness. A strange openness to it, the shadowed hollow of his empty eye socket; the Bull's face transformed into something tireder, softer. How could a knot of scar tissue be softening?

There was a scar on the Bull's upper arm, too, ordinarily covered by leather. No larger than the rest of his scars; no more uneven or poorly healed. But unknown. How clear the lines of it seemed to Dorian. Something barbed, to judge by the jagged snagging of the edge there; one of those cruelly hooked daggers the Tevinter military favoured, perhaps. Poisoned, presumably, in a place like Seheron.

"Come in," the Bull said, a gentle prompt, as though—well, perhaps Dorian had fastened a little in his thoughts. In—the sight of the Bull. The smell of him. The rough edge to his sigh as he heaved himself to his feet. One was perhaps somewhat—it was perhaps the case that—

No matter.

The door. 

The wood was worn smooth at chest height, where hand after hand had grasped it to draw it open. How strange. One might take the handle, but one didn't. Instead the grain of the wood became polished down, a little at a time, until it shone.

Focus, Pavus. Not the moment to allow one's frayed senses to unravel entirely.

Perhaps one ought not have come.

He stepped across the threshold, and closed the door very carefully behind him. Palms to the surface of it. 

"You're spooked," the Bull said. "What happened?"

"You know very well," Dorian said, too sharply—broke himself off, cursed under his breath. Ungrateful, as though any gentleness might be a trap. Take the Altus out of Tevinter—"It has not been a particularly pleasant week thus far. Apologies. And my thanks for breakfast."

"No problem," the Bull said.

"I need—" Dorian sighed, rubbed his hand across his lips, removed it hurriedly. "I'm afraid I must confess an—indiscretion."

"Sounds serious," the Bull said. He was still smiling.

"You are aware that I have suffered a, a mishap," Dorian said. His couldn't keep his mouth from tightening. "Of my own making, certainly. I imagine you have also deduced the majority of the particulars, given your irritating ability to identify my every weakness."

"I wouldn't say weakness."

"You," Dorian gestured sharply, "you— _I would._ "

"It's alright," the Bull said. "Dorian. Listen."

"It is not," Dorian said. "I sat on the steps outside this room last night and I heard you, I _smelled_ you, and I did not simply keep walking although I knew I should have because I wanted so much to know what you're like when you're having sex, despite everything. And now I know, and I _shouldn't._ I sat with my books this afternoon and I didn't get a single wretched piece of work done because I could smell you from half way across the training yard."

"Alright," the Bull said.

"Would you mind terribly actually reacting to what I'm saying?" Dorian snapped.

"If you want to fuck," the Bull said, "we can fuck. Satisfy your curiosity. I have to say, thought you'd ask sooner."

"That—I—"

"It's not a big deal," the Bull said. "Humans have some weird hangups about that crap, but the Qun really doesn't. People have needs. Nothing wrong with that. Why this game of politely pretending it doesn't happen? I like sex. I like to get myself off. I don't mind who knows. If you're good, I'm good."

Horrifyingly, amazingly, Dorian could smell that he meant it. Wanted to argue, wanted—

How wretched one's life could be, and in what unexpected ways.

"If it helps, you might as well have been there anyway," the Bull said.

"What," Dorian said, and then, "ah—I—"

The Bull shrugged.

So much for one's late night prayers, then.

"I'm into you," the Bull said. "You thought I was joking?"

"I'm not entirely certain what I thought," Dorian said. He felt a little detached from himself. After two days of overwhelming physicality, it was quite nearly a relief, except that he also craved—well, certain things. Specific things.

"I'm not joking," the Bull said.

Dorian closed his eyes, not trusting his own expression. "Clearly not."

The Bull's hand on his arm, careful, light. The Bull's body turned so that Dorian could reach the latch. Escape routes, space. 

You will be the death of me, Dorian thought, desperate.

"What do you want?" the Bull asked, with that terrifying gentleness. "For us. Say the word, I'll lay off the flirting for good. Say the word and I'll pin you to the bed. Anything in between. You're my friend either way. You know that. Right?"

Why should one find that one's breath caught in one's throat? An unpleasant smell from the yard. Oh, no, that lie was too flimsy, even for this. Honesty, then:

"I learnt a very long time ago that one ought not fall into bed with one's friends," Dorian said.

The Bull measured him, a sweep of his eye up and down. Cataloguing, of course—whatever tells he could read from Dorian's posture, the way he held his hands, the working of his throat. Whatever else it might be. One had no idea, of course. That was rather the point.

"That mean stop?" the Bull asked.

Dorian could feel his expression folding. Lie. Lie. 

You don't fuck your friends because it's the best way to make sure you stop being friends. You pick up strangers at parties, Orlesians who won't take their masks off to kiss you even when they're thrusting into you, pinning you to a wall. You have a good time with a scout in the woods outside a camp, laugh it off and never speak again.

He was so tired. Oh, not of the sex, certainly not that.

Only of pretending that he had ever managed to learn not to hope for more.

"It does not," he said, and hated the way his voice faltered.

"You sure?"

"You know that I want you," Dorian said.

"Doesn't have to mean anything," the Bull said. His laugh was a stifled thing. "Plenty of people want me but don't fuck me. Bit of curiosity. I get it."

Dorian choked his impulsive anger back in his throat before it could shape itself into more poorly-considered words. He thought: I cannot for the life of me understand why one would not want to engage in a large number of creative sex acts with this man.

He thought: I cannot for the life of me understand why one would not want to wake up beside him.

The smell of the Bull engulfed him. The sound of his heart. 

The heat of him.

"And if I would very much like to kiss you?" Dorian asked, because there seemed to be terribly little point in denying it now.

He heard the minute shift of the Bull's breath in his throat. He would never have known—have thought the Bull entirely unmoved—

"Then you should kiss me," the Bull said. "You want to kiss me?"

His hand on the side of Dorian's face, the rough pads of his fingers, the light drag of his blunted nails. He tipped Dorian's head back, so very carefully. His pulse pounded against Dorian's skin, how strange to feel another living thing so clearly.

And still he left Dorian space to run.

Oh, damn it all, Dorian thought.

Surged up to kiss him.

Because one was not to be allowed to hold any shred of dignity in reserve, the sensation of it was enough to startle him into something rather like a sob. These last years he had kissed few enough people, and now—like this—

How could one feel it so keenly? Such a simple touch?

"You're alright," the Bull said, and the brush of his lips against Dorian's skin was a sparking, jolting thing. "Hey, hey, it doesn't have to be more than this. You're feeling everything too much, right?"

"I believe what I'm doing is making a spectacle of myself," Dorian said miserably. "I assure you, I'm generally a very competent lover."

The Bull drew back. Dorian hurried to stop him.

"Don't—" he said. Collected himself with no small effort. "I seem doomed to feel overwhelmed regardless. I would prefer it to be a pleasant thing. I would prefer it to be you, if you find yourself amenable."

"I'll still be here tomorrow," the Bull said. "The day after. Next month. You don't have to."

And Dorian said, "I know."

More than that, he found that he rather believed it.

"Right," the Bull said, brushed Dorian’s hair back from his brow where it had fallen. "Let's see what we can do."

The scarf that the Bull produced, some time later, after Dorian had been relieved of his leathers and his tunic both, was of a soft dark silk. The brush of it over Dorian's skin was something decadent, setting him shivering pleasantly.

"What do you say to covering your eyes?" the Bull asked. "Ears too. Not enough to shut everything out. Muffle it a bit, maybe. You'll still be able to hear me."

"Oh," Dorian said, as the Bull brushed a hand lightly across his chest; arched up with an eagerness that would have been embarrassing with anyone else. "How do you know?"

The Bull laughed, bent over him to kiss the bared line of his throat. "Because," he said, "that's how it works for me. Should think you're hearing about as much right now as I normally do."

Which part of this was it that made Dorian moan aloud, forgetting to quiet himself? Imagine—the Bull placing himself in someone's hands, giving over his tightly-held control. Imagine—the Bull, reading from him all those tiny telling sounds which he himself would never previously have noticed.

"Yes," he said. "Do it."

The Bull's hands were entirely steady, sure in their movements, folding the large square of fabric until it became a quite sturdy but broad strip, drawing it around Dorian's head. 

Of course he would be expert at tying knots.

Dorian's pulse thundered in his ears.

"You still hear me?" the Bull asked, very close.

Dorian nodded.

"Hear anything else?"

"I—no."

There had been footsteps on the battlements, conversations in the tavern. They had not vanished, precisely, but it had become a choice to hear them or ignore them. A possibility of filtering, too long absent.

One might choose to focus on the Bull, and only on the Bull.

He sank back against the bed in relief.

"Working for you, then," the Bull said, good humour and—what else? Not wonder, surely.

"Oh, yes," Dorian said. "Kiss me again."

The Bull stretched against him, the length of their bodies pressing together for the first time.

The kiss was hot, open-mouthed.

"I wonder," the Bull said, "if I could get you off just like this. You're already hard."

The Bull's stomach pressed down against Dorian's cock. His teeth grazed the corner of Dorian's jaw.

Dorian's hands scrabbled against his the Bull's broad back, felt the ridges and hollows of every scar, felt the shift of the Bull's muscles under his skin.

"You could," he admitted, knew it to be true. How little it would take. "But perhaps I would like to be overwhelmed—oh, _oh_ —more thoroughly."

"Time for that too," the Bull said. "If you like."

To be taken apart over and over again. He was already trembling, wound up tighter than ought to have been possible. How aware he was of every place the Bull was touching him. The sheets below him, old and worn thin and soft. The deep and increasingly familiar smell of the Bull's arousal.

"Yes," he said.

The Bull kissed him once more, and this time he lingered over it, took everything that made Dorian groan and shift and used it without mercy. I will lose myself to this, Dorian though. 

He didn't particularly mind.

He could feel the way the Bull too jolted with pleasure above him, could smell it, hear the catch of the Bull's breath in his throat—feel it in his mouth. He wants me, oh how he wants me—and I—

It seemed to take a very long time, this unravelling—it pulled at every part of him, diffuse and intense at once, his awareness fragmented. A sort of surprise, inasmuch as he could collect his thoughts enough for such a feeling, when the Bull shifted his weight, dragged his fingers through the mess of come smeared across Dorian's stomach. A more definite surprise at the strength of the aftershock that gesture sent through him, a violent lurch, no steady ground left to him.

But the Bull remained, unseen but felt. The thrill of being denied knowledge of his expression in this moment, the frustration that did more to arouse than trouble, and oh—he had only just come, but yes, he could take more, wanted it to truly become too much in a way that ought to have been frightening.

He felt no fear.

"Fuck me," he breathed.

The Bull laughed. "You sure? Have you even seen the size of my dick?"

"I am not so innocent as to avert my gaze when we bathe," Dorian said, felt the Bull's laughter again, suppressed but present, against his throat. Found himself laughing a little too, breathless, unmoored. To drift out to sea and be engulfed by it. 

"Can't see what it's like now I'm hard, though," the Bull said; shifted deliberately, let his cock move against Dorian's, a slow drag. Dorian was still soft despite the interest his body felt, and how fascinating that feeling was, how curiously decadent. A luxury, to lie together like this.

"You could allow me to," Dorian said.

"You want that?"

More laughter. Both of them groaned as the broad head of the Bull's cock moved across the slight curve of Dorian's stomach, sliding easily through the remains of Dorian's come.

"Oh, no," Dorian said. "No, not yet—this is—"

He fumbled blindly for the Bull, brushed a hand clumsily across his face; lingered with the tips of his fingers against the Bull's lips to feel the way the Bull's mouth moved in a smile.

"You can touch if you want," the Bull said. A moment's pause in which Dorian wondered if it was possible to come entirely undone merely because someone's tongue was dragging across the pads of one's fingers. "Get your hands on me, feel how hard I am because of you. Get your mouth on me, if you like that better."

Dorian gasped, imagining—the Bull kneeling above him—

"Oh, there we are," the Bull said. "You're _desperate_ for it."

No trace of derision. What a singular person the Bull was, after all.

"Yes," Dorian said. "Oh, yes."

"Alright," the Bull said. The heavy rise and fall of his chest against Dorian's arm. "Hey, I'm going to get off you now. Not going far. Just want more light."

His hand took Dorian's, squeezed it reassuringly. The shift of the bed as the Bull rose. If Dorian tried, he could pick on the Bull's footsteps, fainter through the fabric but still discernable. The sharp tap of a strike-a-light was more definite. A change in the quality of the darkness even through the blindfold as a new lamp flared.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," the Bull said. "The things I want to do with you—"

A touch of his hand to Dorian's jaw. Might one call it a caress? Did one merely long to think of it as such?

But the Bull's weight settling over him overwhelmed his uncertain thoughts, allowed him to sink below the surface once more. Knees either side of his chest, the Bull's weight tipped forward over him—the smell of sex filling his nose, his mouth, settling heavy in his throat.

The head of the Bull's cock resting against his lips, only touching, damp and sharp with salt.

Dorian tested the shape of it, mouthed lightly at the slit, dragged his tongue carefully across it to feel its curves, to taste the new bead of precome that welled at his attentions. Let the head slide across his cheek and felt instead the delicate skin of the Bull's shaft, so smooth against his tongue. Ridged veins. He kissed the largest of them, and the Bull's cock jerked at it, smeared dampness across Dorian's face, caught against the edge of the scarf.

Hands on the Bull's thighs to urge him forward, and Dorian, burying his face in the wiry hair between the Bull's legs, the Bull's balls heavy against the side of his jaw, knew finally nothing else but this.

" _Damn,_ " the Bull breathed above him. "Damn, look at you, rubbing my dick all over your face like that—oh, fuck—"

The Bull's hips shifted as though he wanted to thrust against Dorian, was restraining himself by the narrowest of margins. The bed frame creaked.

Dorian let his head fall back against the Bull's pillows, gasped in a breath, another. He felt strange and shivery with the need to hold this, this entire perfectly terrifyingly momentous feeling of being wanted by someone as significant as the Bull, being taken care of, loved—

Oh, no, not that. Say respected, rather.

But it was loved that he felt, and no space to pull that treacherous feeling apart, only—only—

Above him, the Bull's every exhale was a groan. The drag of his nails on the thin plaster of the wall, did his arms strain to hold him up, what emotions showed on his face?

"Bull," Dorian murmured. "Bull—come on me—I want you to—"

Rubbed his mouth again against the head of the Bull's cock, let it slip for a moment between his parted lips, let himself feel that weight against his tongue.

The Bull must be stroking himself now, hips rocking shallowly into it. Moaning and moaning, cock jerking, slipping from Dorian's mouth to press against his cheek, his jaw, the side of his nose.

The slightly bitter taste of come on his tongue, the warmth of it striping his face, oh, oh, oh—

" _Dorian_ ," the Bull said, scrambled to shift himself down the bed, to take Dorian's face in his hands and drag him up into a frantic, biting kiss. Blood on the tongue, intensely metallic—his, or the Bull's, or perhaps both. Both of them breathed hard, in any case, grasped at each other as though they needed contact for sanity—what a jest, as though sanity was the word for this—for how much he felt, hopelessly, desperately—

No sarcasm left in him, nothing flippant. "Fuck me," he breathed against the Bull's lips. I need you inside me, I need you in every part of me.

A dizzy moment as the Bull flipped them, rummaged noisily through the mess of belongings on his bedside table. He kept an arm around Dorian the whole time, and how pathetically grateful Dorian was for it.

How long did they kiss for, the Bull's huge fingers pressing slowly deeper and deeper into him as he sprawled on top of the Bull, held to him? The thrust and twist of the Bull's fingers inside him, shallower movements as the Bull searched for the right spot to make Dorian sob into his mouth, to make Dorian's cock jerk weakly against his stomach. The lingering power of his spellwork transformed every part of it, gave a clarity to every movement—every knot of the Bull's knuckles, the rough calluses from years of fighting. So much of the Bull's life, all written on his body, pressed now painstakingly into Dorian's skin. Into the soft inside of his body.

How long would it live there?

"Mm," the Bull said, breathed, his deep sex-roughened voice reverberating through Dorian's chest. "Think you can kneel?"

His fingers curled inside Dorian, more substantial in their own right than some cocks he'd taken.

A gasping laugh. Words seemed very far away, as far away as every sensory trace of the world beyond this room. Irrelevant.

"Dorian?" the Bull prompted.

Dorian shuddered pleasantly. "Only if you hold me up, I fear."

"Yeah," the Bull agreed. Lifted Dorian carefully, sitting up as he did so. Regrettably, his fingers slipped from Dorian's hole.

Kneel. Like this, knees just so, head bowed forward like this, hands on thighs. 

The Bull's body was a warm presence at his back. A hand on his stomach, steadying. Lips pressed to his neck, a punctuation. A resting moment.

Then the Bull was guiding him up, a hand on his hip. "Take hold of my horn if you like," he said.

"You're enjoying this," Dorian mumbled, and followed the suggestion. Rough grooves under his fingers, knots of damage here as on the rest of the Bull's body.

"Oh, _yeah,_ " the Bull said. That tiny strain to his voice that Dorian was beginning to suspect he'd never stop being amazed by. "You bet I am."

The Bull's cock against his hole, not pushing in, only sliding against it, pressing quite nearly firmly enough, pulling away again. A game, but not one that the Bull seemed to have the patience to draw out for so terribly long.

And oh, when the Bull finally pushed into Dorian, when the head of his cock spread Dorian open for the first time, oh, oh—oh, wasn't that something. Wasn't that—

"Shh," the Bull said, stroked Dorian's stomach, gentling. A hand sliding across Dorian's chest, taking his weight, coaxing him back to lean against the Bull's chest, head rolling back against the Bull's shoulder. "Easy. You're so tight, got to go slow—damn, Dorian—"

The slow roll of the Bull's hips, the delicious slide of his cock inside Dorian—how obscene, to be able to actually feel the shape of it, the broad flared head. He had never felt anything like it. 

The press of the Bull's hand against his stomach, leaving his cock untouched.

The Bull's other hand came up to stroke Dorian's jaw, brought that smell of the Bull's own pleasure with it—the hand he had been stroking himself with. Oh, oh, fuck.

"Over my face," Dorian managed, wondered if the words were even coherent. "Nothing but you—"

The Bull said something vehement in Qunlat, whole body jerking against Dorian's.

Laid his hand over Dorian's nose and mouth. Oh, not hard, not a smothering hold. But it was enough. 

Every breath Dorian took drew the Bull into his lungs.

Almost more than he could bear. Not quite as much as he wanted. A perfect knife-edge balance of longing and aching satisfaction.


	5. Chapter 5

Early morning. Only a small window in the Bull's tavern room, too well-covered to let in much light. But the change of the guard on the walkway above. The bell for first prayers from the distant chantry courtyard, and kitchen maids' chattering, yawning progress through the morning cleaning below. Comfortable stuff, that much-needed feeling of being a part of something bigger.

Dorian slept. 

He slept with his eyes and ears covered, the blindfold a fresh one; breathed slow and deep, limbs relaxed, body warm.

The Bull, some hour awake, didn't actually fancy moving.

It would wake Dorian, probably, and that was a pretty good excuse for staying put; but as good as the Bull might be at telling necessary lies, he knew an unnecessary excuse when he met one.

A truth:

It felt pretty damn good, having Dorian in his bed like this. It'd felt good to unwind all his frustrated tension, leave him wrung out and sated. This, this peace, might actually be better.

Another truth:

He wasn't actually sure what would happen when Dorian woke up.

But finally, Dorian did. The shift of his breathing, the slow turn of his body. No sharp moment of surprise, but a slow realisation.

"Morning," the Bull said. "Want the blindfold off? Room's dim."

A hesitation. "Please," Dorian said. Morning roughness to his voice, stupidly appealing.

The Bull undid the knot, eased the fabric away. Allowed himself to lift Dorian's hair from his face, smooth his fingers through the mess of it.

Dorian blinked at him, unfocused, expression barely discernable in the half-darkness.

"All good?" the Bull asked.

Dorian drew a deep breath, sighed it out. "Yes," he said, and seemed faintly surprised by the word. "I still feel it. But perhaps I'm becoming accustomed. Perhaps—resting—helped."

Don't read too much into a hesitation.

But it was hard not to.

Let it go, then. Dorian didn't need him; had just needed someone. The right place at the right time.

But Dorian smiled. A sly little curl of the mouth.

Here we are, the Bull thought. Balanced on the edge of something, and I still don't know which way it'll fall.

"Come and get breakfast," the Bull said. "If you like."

"Yes," Dorian said. "I suppose I could manage that."

Down the stairs at the Bull's side, in yesterday's clothes, disheveled but looking good for it. He wore it with a play at conviction; the Bull could imagine him as the young man he had been in Tevinter, scandalous and playing to the image, stumbling out of a guest room with the son of the host, smirking at anyone who looked for too long over breakfast.

The Bull could be better for him than some Altus too invested in plausible deniability, couldn't he? If Dorian wanted it.

Cole, watching from the floor above, could have told him the answer to both parts, but found that the Iron Bull's worry wasn't sharp enough to merit an intervention, tempered as it was with the anticipation of something that the Iron Bull would probably not call courtship, but that wore the same shape in his head.

Dorian was harder to see—no, no, to hear. Seeing was what you did with the eyes. He could see Dorian, yes, the superficial outer shape of him walking down the stairs, the trailing brightness of the fade that followed him. But he was quieter than he had been when Cole had tried to tell him that it was alright the day before. It hadn't worked. Now, though, he was a mostly placid pool, his emotions not things that called terribly strongly in Cole's particular direction.

Good. Yes, that was good. That was why the Iron Bull understood Cole, although he pretended not to. He wanted to help. He could. He did.

Cole left them to it, turned his attention to the soldiers chatting on the ramparts. Worry for a sister. A mutual uncertainty that came from a fight, mostly patched over. Things he could touch, or hear, or see, or whatever it was one did. Things he could unwind and straighten out and twist neatly back into their right place.

Cassandra, coming in from morning training, called to the Bull before she ever noticed Dorian. The Bull had missed morning training, which was unusual; although he might speak of debauchery, a touch of indulgence had never led him to deviate from this part of his routines. She had missed him, yes; he was a good sparring partner, and not so much a gracious loser as a delighted one. He was relaxing company, besides.

In any case: there he was, and she was glad of it—had been concerned that he might be unwell—the stress of the Storm Coast and all the rest of it. Maker only knew he had been trying too hard to be the person he thought they all wanted, or needed, or however he might choose to put it.

He turned to her, grinned, tipped her a salute so sloppy that it could only have been deliberately provocative. He was not one of her soldiers, and so she allowed it; smiled, in fact.

"Oh," Dorian said, appearing from out of the Bull's shadow. "Good morning, Cassandra."

He looked rather hastily groomed; not a first, certainly, but he was not typically to be seen in such a state within the walls of Skyhold. 

"Stunned into silence by my handsome countenance?" he suggested.

It would not do to seem amused, although one might very well be.

"By your impudence, I should say," she said, and was surprised to find that this proved to be the last word on the matter. Dorian must have had a sharp reply ready, but he was thwarted. 

This was thanks to the appearance of the Inquisitor, who had clearly been hunting for him, and Sera, who was nothing if not a merciless opportunist.

"There you are," Mia began, at the very same moment that Sera said, with what to Cassandra seemed unnecessary glee but which Sera thought only proper enthusiasm, "Ooh, Dorian, look at you. You've been _jousting._ "

She slung an arm around his neck, which involved jumping, but was way worth it for the way he laughed and staggered; worth the faintly disapproving look from Mia, who usually thought she was funny, too.

"Perhaps," he said. "Although I can't imagine why it would be your business if I had. Unless you're worried about our shop?"

The Bull made an interesting noise. Laughter, but kind of cut off into a cough. Why would he cut it off like that if not—

Oh. _Oh_.

Alright. Well, she could avoid being a tit about that part of it for a while at least. Let them figure it out, apply a bit of grease if they didn't. Hopefully there'd been grease involved already, but—ugh, whatever. Time enough to take the piss later, was the point. Better start working on good lines.

"Did you find something of use yesterday?" Mia asked, looking at Dorian with an inquisitively raised eyebrow. Or inquisitorial, maybe, because—no, too obvious.

"I didn't," Dorian said, "but the situation seems to be resolving itself."

"I expect updates, all the same," Mia said. Smiling now, though—looking at the bunch of them, Bull and Dorian and Sera, Cassandra hanging back—and apparently liking something about what she saw. "Oh well. Breakfast, I think, before somebody ambushes me with another wretched petition."

Into the low side-hall where they were accustomed to take their meals, away from the general mess of visitors in the main hall. And if more than one person still found Dorian a little quiet where he sat, the Bull to his right and Sera to his left—if he perhaps picked at his food a little—one could certainly not have said he seemed overwhelmingly distressed.

And isn't that as much as any of us can say, Mia thought as she took her own seat. Given these slightly ludicrous times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to James for kicking my characterisation until it made sense, and to June & Jasper for writing company. 
> 
> Your comments, as ever, are adored.


End file.
